


where’s a script when you need one

by Underthebluerain



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-20 20:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18132002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underthebluerain/pseuds/Underthebluerain
Summary: When Grif finally reunites with his team, Simmons is bleeding out on the floor.





	1. Grif (I)

Grif has been alone on the moon for four weeks, five days, seventeen hours and thirty-two minutes.

Not that he’s been counting or anything. Doing math is lame, and nerdy, as he’s told Simmons repeatedly over the last few years. He can’t just go against his principles like that and start counting stupid shit now like how many rocks are at the bottom of the spring because if it’s an even number the others are coming back today.

Thirty-three minutes now.

Also, counting stuff is a silent activity, unless you count the way Caboose does, which is loud enough for the whole moon to hear how a hundred plus fifty-two is fifteen, drawing the five with a big belly because it ate the two.

But Grif actually knows how to count in silence, so he’s had to find noisy things to do with his time. Like watching TV, and singing, and playing ping-pong against a wall, and playing videogames, and playing every instrument in the base. 

So it was only a matter of time that he got to role-playing —LARPing, Simmons would correct him, and he’d be wrong because that isn’t what Grif is doing because that’s geeky as hell— and started acting out scenarios he made up in his head (which honestly are much less far-fetched than any of the shit Project Freelancer cooked up for them, Grif is a serious writer, thank you). It was also a matter of time before he got bored of doing solo performances and had to, er, recreate his supporting cast with the nearest material available, in this case, volleyballs.

Yeah, it’s a good thing that nobody’s watching him right now.

Things would be easier, though, if his co-stars would just _stop_ interrupting him when he’s trying to say his lines. Goddamnit! He knows he’s fucked up, okay, he knows, he’s trying to apologize, he’s trying to talk to Simmons, it’s just that these jerks won’t let him get a word in edgewise, and now Church is dead, _again_ , damnit!

“Shut up and listen to me! Everyone, I am so, so—”

“Completely insane.”

What follows is Grif triple checking —Simmons always triple-checks things— whether Locus is real or just a hallucination —he could be, he’s imagined the guys returning several times— and also whether he’s going to kill him —he also imagined the guys coming back just to do that one time. That was a bad day— but once everything’s cleared up, it’s just a matter of grabbing his volleyball friends and boarding a genocidal maniac’s ship. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Easy peasy of lemon cake, piece of cake squeezy. 

It feels like the longest trip Grif has ever gone on. He talks and talks and talks. It doesn’t make time go by any faster, but it distracts him from his thoughts.

Locus is mostly quiet, and so are the guys, and Grif misses having someone to snark back at him. But it’s okay, he knows it’s coming. He can’t wait to hear the gang bitching and complaining again. However bad things have gotten, he’s sure at least Simmons will find the energy to yell at him.

When Grif finally reunites with his team, Simmons is bleeding out on the floor.


	2. Simmons (I)

“Gather ‘round, gather ‘round, good people, for I bring ye news!”

Simmons isn’t the only one who doesn’t bother getting up on hearing Temple’s irritating proclamation. Damn, is that guy annoying, and they’ve had to pay attention to him every single time he’s come into the cellblock. Which has been fairly often, because he loves the sound of his own voice and, well, they’re his prisoners. Nothing like a captive audience, Simmons guesses.

He just barely lifts up his head to glare at the Blue, and the fact that Temple can see all the disdain he hopes his expression conveys is the only reason Simmons is glad they were taken out of their armor before being imprisoned.

“So, as this typically goes, I have good news and bad news!” Temple says brightly. The fact that his personality is so fucking sunny (so unlike Church’s) is just one more reason to loathe him. No one should be that big of an asshole and that cheerful. “Which ones would you like to hear first?”

Boy, if he wanted to maintain his theatrical atmosphere, he shouldn’t have asked that in a room with Caboose in it. 

“The good news! No, wait, wait. The bad news. Bad, then good, ‘cause it’s that way in the spelling bee. And also because you always eat dessert after your vegetables. Or is it the other way around? Is there any way you can eat both at the same time—?”

“Shut up,” Temple cuts him off flatly, then resumes his cheesy tone. “Well, the good news is, one of your dashing companions has come to your rescue!”

Simmons springs to his feet at that. It worked. Somehow, Lopez (well... his head...) had managed to reach Grif, and somehow Grif managed to understand the exclusively Spanish-speaking robot, and they both somehow managed to get to the sketchy underwater base.

...Where they’ve gotten caught, by the sound of it.

Yeah, okay, thinking it through, it hadn’t been a great plan. But it was the only one they’d had, and hey, it kind of worked, didn’t it? Simmons is still counting on the fact that they’re usually as lucky as they are unlucky.

And Grif is here. He got Simmons’ message and he still came, even after everything he’d said and how they’d all left him, he’s here...

“However, the bad news is...” Temple actually pauses dramatically at this. What an asshole, “...that I have just been informed that the reason said trooper is here is because you managed to send him a message from this very base.”

He pauses again, probably expecting gasps or whatever, but nobody says anything at that. Tucker is too angry, Caboose too chastised, Donut too absent, and Simmons too distracted. Tough room.

“Now, the only question,” Temple goes on, “is which one of you had the brilliant idea to send an SOS without me knowing. You see, him showing up right after everything was tied up, he’s made me look quite a fool, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s silence again, but this time it’s a tense one. Seems like Temple is better at creating an atmosphere than Simmons thought.

“So, let’s see,” he mutters as he goes near the Blues’ cell. “I don’t think it was you, Tucker. Had it been, you wouldn’t have wasted any time to rub it in my face, would you?” Judging by the pissed off expression in Tucker’s eyes, he’s probably right.

Temple briefly glances at Caboose. “And, well, I know it certainly wasn’t you. Too much of an idiot. You probably don’t even know what we’re talking about right now, do you?” Caboose does that shifty thing with his eyes like he always does when he’s about to try and pretend he knows what the hell is going on, but before he can (badly) bullshit his way through, Tucker slams the cell bars with his palm and growls, “Shut the fuck up, dude.”

Even though, in Simmons’ opinion, the guy should at least jump a little, Temple is unaffected by the display of anger. He just turns, completely ignoring Donut’s cell —and sure, Donut wasn’t with them when they got captured, so he couldn’t have been the one to send the message, but Temple somehow manages to make even his lack of suspicion dickish—, and gets closer to the only occupied cell on the opposite side of the room. Simmons’.

“Which,” his voice has a different edge now, cold under his bright façade “leaves just you, Simmons,” and Simmons _knows_ this guy is a self-important pipsqueak who couldn’t take any of them in a real fight (or, hell, a simulated fight), but he doesn’t think the guy is about to propose they hash it out with a fair one-on-one.

To be honest, he’s scared. Simmons is not used to being the only Red anywhere (but he has to be now because Donut is silent and Lopez is gone and Sarge is insane and Grif is). He’s not used to facing enemies on his own, and he hasn’t done so hot when he’s been forced to do so in the past. He doesn’t even have a gun, or a knife, or his armour, the black undersuit being all that’s protecting him now. He feels vulnerable, and, despite the other sim troopers’ presence, he feels alone. He hates being alone.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?” Temple says to him, voice back to its sickening sweetness.

C’mon, Simmons. Now is the moment when the doomed hero always says something cool and is fearless in the face of imminent death. He just has to find a good one-liner and he’ll look like a badass.

...Right before he gets shot. Great.

Well, Simmons’ screenwriter can’t be very good, because he can’t think of anything remotely cool to say. He tries to remember any of the awesome movie lines he knows he’s memorised for this moment, but he draws a blank.

( _“Hey, Simmons, what would your last words be?” “What the hell?” “Yeah, probably. You loser.” “No, asshole, I mean, why would you ask me that?” “What? It’s a perfectly normal question.” “Actually, it makes it sound like you’re going to kill me, Grif.”_

Not now.)

He’ll have to improvise.

“Yeah, actually,” he swallows past the lump in his throat. “If you think for one second that you’re going to get away with this—”

“Aw, still holding out hope for that last-minute rescue?” Temple mocks him like he does everything else, in an over-the-top manner. “Don’t.”

He comes closer to the bars of the cell. Simmons swallows.

“I’ve read all the files about you, you know,” Temple murmurs, looking down. “You’re friends, aren’t you? You and him. Grif.” Before Simmons can reply, he goes on speaking in a low voice, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I had one too, a long time ago. He was a bit like your Grif.” Temple looks him in the eye when he adds, “Except mine didn’t leave me.”

Simmons feels a little like he’s been punched, and he can’t even protest while Temple shakes himself from whatever reverie he was in. “Now, you know I don’t like unnecessary violence” he states, calmly dislodging his gun from his holster, “but the occasion calls for it, I believe.”

Temple raises his gun and shoots, once.

At first, Simmons is just startled by the noise, then he feels something wet and warm flowing from his stomach. 

He finds himself on the floor, suddenly. He doesn’t recall falling, but he must’ve. He’s alone. He’s alone in this cell. Temple has left. He can vaguely hear Donut, Tucker and Caboose, he thinks they’re screaming something, but it’s as if they’re underwater. As in, actually underwater, no walls, no ceiling, just all of them sinking deep into the lake. His ears are still ringing and that doesn’t let him listen to anything else. Or maybe it’s the sheer panic, because he’s going to die. He tries to think about anything else, don’t think about the hole in your stomach, don’t think about your fractured team, don’t think about not seeing Grif for one last time—

And then Grif is there.

No, not there exactly, his face is there hovering above him but there are metal bars in front of it and his mouth is moving but Simmons can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Grif?” he asks, he thinks.

The static clears out a little, and he can make out Grif’s voice. “—me, it’s me. Simmons, can you hear me? Simmons, please—”

Simmons wants to smile, so he does. It probably looks stupid. “You got my message,” is what he says, because dying hasn’t made him any less prone to stating the obvious, apparently.

Grif doesn’t seem to mind that Simmons keeps spouting the dumbest potential last words ever. “I did,” he says, his voice sounds panicked and wet. That’s alarming, but Simmons finds it difficult to focus on his face for long, between the bars and the neon lights and his growing tiredness. “I did. Fuck, no. Buddy, no, damn it, friend, Simmons, look at me. No, no. There’s so much I need to tell you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left like that, I’m sorry I didn’t come with you, I’m sorry about everything, I’m a terrible friend. Fuck, please—”

That kind of deafening buzzing in his ears is slowly returning, which may be for the best, Simmons thinks, because Grif is crying and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now, or ever.

“It’s okay, hang in there, help is coming, fuck, just hold on—”

( _“Hold on! Hold on! Don’t let go!” “Simmons—!”_

The memory has come, unbidden, and it’s one of the worst moments of his life, but Simmons thinks maybe it’s a good omen. They did manage to save Grif that one time.

Maybe Grif will be okay this time too.)

Simmons’ vision is blurry as well now, Grif’s face a formless brown shape overhead. It’s weirdly comforting, in the same way that Grif’s dark shape in their room at night is, and Simmons closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this I discovered that I like writing Temple (he’s so dramatic, guys) but. He talks a LOT. The reason this chapter is so long is mostly because he wouldn’t shut up.
> 
> Temple: *opens mouth*  
> The Reds, the Blues, Dylan, Jax, myself: I've had enough of this dude
> 
> He’s just. Such a tool. And yet I feel truly sorry for him. He was one of the most sympathetic villains we’ve had.
> 
> Also, AO3 wasn’t showing any word count for this fic and I have no idea why. It seems to be fixed now.


	3. Grif (II)

He gets caught pretty easily, according to plan.

The guy who’s dressed like Church but definitely isn’t Church is acting really fucking weird about it, though.

“Now, now,” he sounds pleasantly surprised to see Grif, which makes no sense. “What have we here?”

Here, the plan is for Grif to piss them off enough that they lock him up with the guys, but not enough that they shoot him right then and there. It’s a difficult balance that he hasn’t ever managed, so he’s a bit worried about taking on the challenge.

“What’s up, dude? I’m just um, here doing, um, whatchamacallit, recroissant.”

“The correct term is ‘reconnaissance’,” a fucking douche in maroon says, because they’ve also got a cheap copy of Simmons down here, apparently.

Well, if he thinks Grif’s gonna argue with him, he’s mistaken. “Dude, whatever. I’m a man on a mission, you know how it goes.”

“You must be Grif, of course,” Not-Church says. “My name is Temple.” And is he fucking serious? _Temple_?

Like Grif said. Far-fetched. He could write better stuff on the fly, handless, with one eye closed. Seriously.

But he’s gotta power through it. Without laughing. “Yup, that’s me.”

“Mhmm.” The dude— fine, okay, Temple, taps his chin with one finger and says, “Well, if you don’t mind, could you take off your helmet? Just to make sure you are you, you understand. We’ve had some issues with dopplegängers here.”

Grif isn’t particularly happy to do it —he does seem to attract bullets— but he removes his helmet as told. Hell, he’s supposed to be a distraction for as long as possible while Locus does his invisible man act. If they ask him to, he’ll take off his armour piece by piece and polish each one for an hour. Wasting time, that’s something he knows how to do.

When his face is exposed, there’s a groan from one of the figures in red. “It’s Grif alright,” a gruff voice says, because oh, yeah, apparently Sarge’s gone even crazier since they last saw each other and he’s now one of the bad guys for some reason. Lopez was _very_ specific —and surprisingly profane— about it.

“Nice to see you too, old man,” he deadpans. “Your raging insanity sure paid off. I see you’ve finally become the comic book villain you were always meant to be.”

“I’m sorry, what’s the story here?” Temple sounds genuinely curious.

Sarge scoffs. “He’s a dirty, no-good deserter who left his team in its moment of need!”

“Sure, yeah. Speaking of, where _is_ my team...?”

They spend a few seconds staring each other down, until Temple claps his hands.

“Wonderful!” he exclaims, rubbing his palms together. Grif can hear the smirk in his voice — it’s an evil smirk, he can’t see it, but he knows it is— and has to make an effort not to roll his eyes. Someone has been reading a ‘How to be a villain and creep people out’ handbook. “This is even better.” He gestures and then a gun is jabbed into Grif’s back as an invitation to start walking, fast.

His colourful clones (plus Sarge) group follows Temple for about two minutes, until he stops in front of a guarded door. Grif’s heart has sped up, and it’s not because of the walking. He’s made it, he’s so close. The guys have got to be behind that door. Now it will open and they’ll be together and things somehow always work out when they’re together.

The Blue turns to look at Grif and says, brightly, “There’s just something I need to set up before I can let you in! Wait here, please,” and Grif doesn’t want to wait, but he can’t fuck it up now, so he shuts up. Play it cool, play it obedient. Locus must’ve found the freelancers by now, and they’re surely on a rampage at this very moment, mowing down evil sim troopers throughout the lair at superhuman speed. Just a little longer, then everything will be fine again.

Temple walks into the room, and a couple of minutes later, Grif hears a shot.

***

“Simmons, no! Simmons, fuck, don’t you fucking dare. Wake up. Look at me.” Grif can’t breathe or think or do anything to help him. Simmons can’t die. He can’t die he can’t die he can’t die he—

The door to the cellblock opens. 

Grif’s panic heightens for a second, _No, leave him alone, don’t touch him_ , but then he remembers Locus is helping them now, he’s opening the doors to the cells, he’s going into Simmons’ and kneeling—

“Help him,” he hears himself say somehow, above the others’ screaming that has intensified now that they have more reasons, “heal him, do you have...”

“I don’t have a healing unit here” Locus’ voice is low and grave as always. “There’s one on the ship, but by the looks of it, I do not think even that would be enough. He needs medical attention.”

Grif nods, frantically. “Okay,” he says, “okay.” Locus is lifting an unconscious Simmons up in his arms, fuck, he’s not moving. “Go, you have to take him to a hospital.”

“I’ll take him to the ship,” Locus is looking right at Grif now. “But after that, you’ll have to take him to Chorus. Your freelancers are not in any condition to help you all right now. If I leave with him, the rest of your team won’t be able to escape.”

Under different circumstances, Grif would probably snark that they’ve managed without any fucking mercenaries or freelancers before, thanks a lot, and how did Locus get that big a head, and also fuck off, but right now he can’t think about anything that’s not Simmons and his blood dripping on the dark blue floor. He has to be practical —he usually is— and he has to be fast —he usually isn’t—. “I don’t know how to fly your ship.”

“You’ve been in it. You know the basics. Order a course for Chorus and set the autopilot. Aranasia will take care of the rest. Get the others out. I’ll call her.”

Grif wants to argue further, _Stop wasting time, take him now, I don’t care_ , but that’s not true. He does care, he came all this way for them, _all_ of them.

It’s just, it’s Simmons.

“Okay,” Grif repeats. Locus exits the room and the thought crosses Grif’s mind that he wants to carry Simmons instead, but his hands are shaking too much. He fumbles with the locks, but somehow manages to open them all and they spill out of the room.

“Okay,” he says while they escape the cellblock, “okay,” he says while Locus gets Simmons in the ship with him, “okay,” he says again and again, and it becomes a sort of mantra he tells both himself and Simmons that carries him through escaping the base, flying the ship, and ends only when he’s given Simmons over to Doctor Grey and buried his head between his arms to wait in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, folks, it's me, leaving you with basically the same cliffhanger, again (sorry). It's fun to hurt the same characters from different perspectives, though!
> 
> On a more serious note, I would like to give a big thank you to everyone who commented on the second chapter. The days it was published I made a pretty important career choice to focus on my writing, and your support then meant a lot to make me feel more self-assured about it. So, thank you all so much.


	4. Simmons (II)

Simmons wakes up warm and comfortable and safe.

There’s a beeping sound coming from somewhere, but it’s not loud enough to be annoying. Apart from that, there’s just silence —and that’s weird. The base is never quiet. Even when Red Team is silent, Blue Team is not, and on the rare occasion they all are, there is always the soft murmur of the waves to be heard from any room.

He opens his eyes slowly, squinting at the sharp light overhead. No, the room he is in right now is far too silent and bright and devoid of smell to be the base. So...

“Captain Simmons!” a youthful voice exclaims right next to him.

Simmons turns his head slowly, blinking to clear the blurry shape where the voice has come from. “...Katie?”

His former lieutenant grins brightly, and Simmons is struck by her braces reflecting the light and by the sudden realisation of how much he’s missed her. “Yes, it’s me!”

“Hi, I, I don’t... am I back on Chorus?”

Jensen nods enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’re okay, sir! How are you feeling? Do you need Doctor Grey? Are you in pain? Are you hungry? Did you miss me?”

“Um... thanks, sore but fine, please don’t, a little, yes, and yes.”

She looks right about to squeal at that, but seems to holds it in with some effort. “I missed you too, sir! Oh, and so did all the girls! We were all in here at first but then one of the nurses told us it was one visitor per patient, so we all stayed anyway, and then Doctor Grey came and told us again, so now we’re taking turns. I’ll call them!”

Simmons wants to see his former team —really, he does, he’s missed his squad— but he needs to get his bearings first. “Wait, I don’t— How did I get here? What happened?” He remembers being locked up with the others in the Blues and Reds’ lair, and then... things get a little confusing.

“Oh, right!” Jensen takes out a dark blue notebook with a big symbol saying ‘CPD’ on it, opens it and begins reading after clearing her throat. “At exactly 0903 PM on 17/13/63, a transport unit AR-4762 of unidentified owner landed on Santa Park, New Armonia, Chorus. The ship contained the total of two individuals, known as Captains Dexter Grif and Dick Simmons, the latter with a bullet wound—”

Simmons jumps from the bed, or he would’ve if the jolt of pain in his stomach hadn’t cut the movement short, so it just looks like he tripped while laying down. He manages to gasp through the ache, “Grif? Grif is here too?”

Jensen nods. “He was piloting the ship that brought you. Don’t worry, he wasn’t injured! Though I hear Doctor Grey’s been trying to catch him and give him a check up...”

That does sound like Grif, but still... “Catch him...?” 

Jensen squirms a little. She looks uncomfortable. “Well, sir, he’s... He brought you in himself, and he stayed right outside the room while you were in surgery, for hours, sir. He was here until Doctor Grey told us you were gonna be okay.” She’s looking at him with something that looks like pity, now. “But he, he hasn’t really been... around, after that.” 

Simmons feels something cold grow in his stomach. He wishes he could blame it on the wound. “Oh,” he says, his own voice sounding a little alien even to him.

“We, um... We’ve been looking for him ever since, but we haven’t found him yet.”

Simmons frowns at that. “Ever since?” He remembers Jensen mentioning the date earlier. “Wait, Jensen, today is... when did I get here exactly?”

She slumps a little more at that. “It’s, well, it’s been three days since you arrived, sir.”

Three days. He’s been here for three days and has no idea what happened to the others, have they managed to stop Temple, are they even alive, where is Grif—

“But I bet he’ll show up now that you’re awake!” Just like that, Jensen is back to being her usual perky self and springs up from her chair. “I’ll find him for you, Captain! I’m sure he can’t wait to see you!” She runs out of the room after doing a clumsy salute, even though he’s not even her superior officer anymore.

Of course she believes that, Simmons thinks bitterly. She doesn’t know about Iris and doesn’t know that Simmons is a prick and a coward who left his best friend behind completely alone because he just felt like it.

Looking around at his empty hospital room, with the knowledge that Grif ran away from him days ago and wants nothing to do with him, feels like a sort of poetic justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my GOD, I LOVE Jensen.
> 
> Like, I knew I loved her but it turns out I also love writing her SHE’S SO ADORABLE.
> 
> Fun fact: this was supposed to be a short sweet ending chapter with the boys reuniting, but it turns out they were sadder than I thought and they refused to meet, so the story just kept going and kept getting angstier. Damn, guys. They're both so sad.


	5. Grif (III)

“Captain Grif?”

Grif lifts his head from where it’s been resting on his arms for what feels like days, ever since Simmons was taken into the operating room and he was forbidden from going inside. A nurse he doesn’t know is looking down at him. “Doctor Grey is finished operating and wants to speak to you.”

While he gets up and follows the kid like an automaton, Grif’s brain, which has been coming up with different horrible scenarios all night, finally decides to settle on one, and he’s bombarded with images of Simmons’ still body on a hospital bed. He’s dead and he died in pain, he’s dead because he didn’t get him help in time, he’s dead and it’s all Grif’s fault—

Grif’s knees go weak. He wants to run. He wants to stop walking. He can’t do either of those things. He’s already at the door.

If he enters that room and Simmons is dead, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

He doesn’t know what expression his face is showing, but the way the nurse is looking at him gives him an idea. “Right in there, sir,” he says when Grif doesn’t immediately go in.

Grif nods, jerkily, and the gesture has the desired effect of giving the nurse permission to turn and leave. He leans against the door, shaking. Okay. Okay.

He opens the door and Simmons is there, pale and unmoving, eyes closed. Grif stares at him until he sees his chest rise a little, then fall, and then he stares until he’s counted twenty rises and twenty falls. Okay. Twenty-first rise. It’s okay. Twenty-first fall.

“Good morning, Captain Grif!” Right. Doctor Grey is here. 

He doesn’t find the energy to reply, so he just looks at her. Good thing she has the energy of ten people, as usual. “Well, let’s see,” she goes on in as chirpy a tone as he remembers, “Captain Simmons is out of danger. It took a few hours of surgery, he’ll be unconscious for a while, but he’s stable. He will be staying hospitalised for a few days, however.”

Grif lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and he feels like he might just fall to the ground right there, like whatever was holding him upright has disappeared. He apparently does just that, because he finds himself sitting on the floor. “Okay,” he breathes.

Doctor Grey continues. “As for yourself, I’ve seen no external injuries, but don’t think you’ll be avoiding a check up. We will be conducting a few tests just to make sure there is no internal bleeding. As for the trauma—”

Grif doesn’t even notice that he’s stood up until he’s out in the hallway and leaving the hospital as fast as his legs can carry him. 

***

Grif has been walking a lot.

He hasn’t stayed longer than two hours in the same place since he first ran away from the hospital, when his feet took him straight to the room that had once been Simmons’ during their time on Chorus and he laid down on his bed and slept for twelve hours.

When he woke up, there was a wonderful, horrible moment in which he thought he’d just fallen asleep in Simmons’ room again and the nerd was making him get up for training because he was late, again.

But there’s no one in the room and Grif doesn’t train anyone anymore.

He’s been alone since he left that room. In the time he’s been back on Chorus, he’s only really spoken to Doctor Grey and that nurse —if him not saying a word can be considered speaking—, and to the medical personnel that he’d run to in a panic with a dying Simmons in his arms after almost crashing Aranasia.

He does seem to remember the lieutenants —well, they’re probably not lieutenants anymore. Are they?— being with him in the hallway during Simmons’ surgery. He didn’t really pay them any mind, so he doesn’t know which of them were there. He’s trying to remember, but it’s all kind of a blur of muffled noise and body-wracking guilt for him.

He thinks Jensen was there, definitely, and there was a bunch of girls too, so probably most if not all of Simmons’ old squad.

Grif looks down at his hands. They’re mostly clean now, but there’s still a bit of red around his nails. He doesn’t recall washing them— no, that had been Matthews. He was there too, then. The kid had tried to convince him to go to the bathroom and clean himself up, but Grif had been unresponsive. So he’d just grabbed some wet paper from somewhere and done it himself.

It's a good thing the kids came, or Grif would be wandering the streets of Chorus looking like a serial killer.

And he’d have to stare at Simmons’ blood longer than he’d already had to.

And now Simmons would be alone.

Yeah, it’s a good thing that the kids are there.

Grif sure isn’t.

***

He’s sitting on a bench somewhere when he feels someone standing next to him.

“Captain Grif, may I sit?” A lisp, so it must be Jensen. Fuck.

When he doesn’t outwardly react, she shuffles a little and then gingerly sits on the bench. He can’t see her face, but he pictures her opening and closing her mouth while wracking her brain thinking of a way to diplomatically point out a commanding officer’s idiotic behaviour without outright calling him an idiot. She’s a lot like Simmons, after all.

“Captain Simmons woke up.”

Grif does look at her then, because he knows, he knows Simmons was okay, but what if that changed and he woke up alone and now something’s wrong—

She picks up on his distress —god damn it, Grif really has lost his poker face, hasn’t he— and rushes to reassure him. “He’s alright, sir. He just, um, he asked about you.”

Ah.

“And I was wondering... Well, I just don’t really get... It’s none of my business, but...” And poor, sweet Jensen here got stuck with the chore of tracking Grif down and asking him why the hell he isn’t with his best friend who almost died and prefers to sit on a bench alone. And he’s gonna have to answer that he abandoned him and his team because he wanted to sit on his ass, and now Matthews and Bitters and Jensen and all the other kids and the whole planet are going to find out just what kind of man he really is.

It’s okay, really. Grif doesn’t like anyone putting him in a pedestal, never has. He can handle being thrown from one.

It’s just, he’d prefer it if he wasn’t actually there to see it happen.

God. Okay, Grif. You can do it. It could be worse, it could be Matthews you have to look in the face and watch as the disappointment washes over it. This is just Jensen.

It’s just Simmons’ dorky, loyal lieutenant who used to follow him around like a lost puppy and loves him like an older brother. No biggie.

The poor girl is still stuttering her way through a cohesive sentence, and he can’t really blame her. He wishes that it were Bitters here so he would just come out and say, “What the fuck are you doing, you fucking asshole?”

But Bitters isn’t here, so Grif is gonna have to take the lead in this conversation.

He takes a deep breath. “I... we...” He feels like he’s choking and wonders if this is how Jensen feels all the time. How the hell does she talk? “We were... But I didn’t want to. I told him that... And then I did go, but when I got there...” Jesus. Words, focus on linking actual words, Grif. “I can’t, I just... I don’t think he wants to see me. Ever again.”

Jensen’s blabbering cuts off brusquely at that. She’s looking at him with her eyes open wide now. “Sir,” she says, “with respect, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway SADNESS and GUILT
> 
> Thankfully Jensen's here to try and knock some sense into those heads


	6. Simmons (III)

Simmons sighs at the knock on his door. He knows it’s not his squad—they’ve already been to see him today and they weren’t allowed to stay past visiting hours— , so it has to be either Doctor Grey or a nurse, here to poke and prod, or worse, ask about his mental health and try to talk to him about therapy. 

He is beginning to understand why Grif won’t let the doctors get a hold of him. Avoiding medical care is exhausting.

Still, he says, “Come in,” because there’s not much else he can do.

The door opens and he’s surprised to find Jensen behind it. He hasn’t seen her since he woke up this morning and she left proclaiming that she would—

She walks into the room and Grif is behind her.

He looks so absolutely awful —though to be fair, Simmons is probably not looking great either— that Simmons’ first thought is that they finally caught him and he’s here to get hospitalized. His eyes are red and sunken, his hair is a dirty tangled mess, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He smells like sweat and blood. He looks sad, gross, and tired.

Simmons can’t look away.

“Hello, Captain!” Jensen beams at him. This kid really is something else. “Like I said, I found him for you!”

Simmons just nods at her, his eyes just glancing in her direction, quickly returning to Grif. She doesn’t seem to blame him and just exits the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

There’s silence after she leaves. In Simmons’ case, it’s because he honestly can’t find the words; and if you ask him, in Grif’s it might be because he’s about to keel over, or has fallen asleep standing up with his eyes open. Given the way he looks, Simmons wouldn’t blame him this once.

Then again, it also might be because he hates Simmons, got dragged in here against his will and has honestly nothing more to say to him. He already said everything, didn’t he, Simmons thinks a little bitterly.

( _“I don’t like you. Any of you.”_

I mean, what the fuck else do you need to get a clue, Simmons? A neon sign? A map?)

Simmons has definitely not been tearing up throughout the day when thinking about Grif and blaming it on his bullet wound, so he certainly doesn’t do so now. It occurs to him, suddenly, that if he doesn’t say anything Grif will just turn around and leave and Simmons will never see him again. 

Panicked, he says the first thing that crosses his mind. “You look terrible.”

Grif wipes his nose with his hand. “Yeah. You too.”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches again and Simmons can’t take it.

“Do you... do you want to say something to me?” he asks, because if Grif wants to leave... if he wants to leave, it’s better if he says so already, because he can’t handle the waiting, and maybe it’d be better if Grif would just say he still hates him and leave and then...

Then Simmons can start his lonely, Grif-less life.

Suddenly, he wants to keep Grif in this room as long as possible, keep him from saying anything at all, cover his ears with his hands like a fucking child and sing so loudly that he can’t listen, but he’s already asked the question and now he has to hear the answer.

Grif’s shoulders seem to have slumped even lower. “Do _you_ want to say something to me?”

 _Take me back_. Simmons blinks. His mind must have thought that, definitely —desperately, fiercely, unless he’s suddenly learned how to read minds and there’s someone else hiding in the room who feels very strongly about this situation, because Grif wouldn’t think that either—, but it doesn’t make any sense. That’s not what you say to a friend, is it, or at least that’s not how you word it. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

But… if Grif wants to leave, he’s going to, isn’t he? Simmons might as well say whatever he’s thinking— it’s not gonna change a damn thing anyway. It never has.

So what the hell.

“Don’t leave,” he blurts out.

Grif blinks. He looks taken aback, and Simmons realizes it’s been easier to read his expressions in the last few minutes than in the last ten years he’s known him. “What?”

If Simmons had the blood to spare, he’s sure he’d be bright red right now. Goddamnit, Grif can’t make this easy, can he? He’s never made anything easy.

He forces the words out again. “Don’t leave.” He takes a deep breath and says, “Don’t leave me.”

Grif’s confounded expression doesn’t change, and Simmons is worried he’s gonna have to repeat himself a third time when Grif says, “Why not?”

That feels like Grif has kicked him in the stomach while wearing his armored boots, and it makes something that was barely restrained come loose in his chest. Simmons hates himself for it, but he can feel his eyes fill with tears. He’s gonna start blubbering any minute now and he won’t be able to get any words out. “I don’t... I know, okay?” the tears start rolling down his cheeks, he can feel them, “I’m a terrible friend, I know and I’m sorry. I didn’t wanna leave you, I thought it was the right thing to do but I knew it was not the moment we took off, but I was too proud and too scared to go back and tell you. I’m sorry. You deserve better and I’m sorry, I understand, I know you hate me and you don’t want to see me again but just, please, don’t leave me.”

He covers his face with his hands to stop the torrent of words and try to conceal what has now turned into full-on sobs, as he feels the shame and the grief burning in his stomach as hot as the ache from the bullet wound that roars with pain every time a poorly contained sob racks his body. It hurts just as much as his heart.

It’s okay, he tries to calm himself, it’s okay. It didn’t fix anything, it was too late, but at least you said it.

He sees brown hands gripping his sheets, he lowers his own and Grif is very close to him, suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he’s crying too, and his voice sounds as broken as Simmons feels, “I knew I’d fucked up when I saw the ship leave, I wanted to shout at you to come back and take me with you, I didn’t, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you got hurt and I wasn’t there, but I’m going to be. I’m not going to leave again unless you want me gone.” He cups Simmons’ cheeks and presses his forehead against his. Simmons can feel his agitated, wet breathing like it’s his own. Maybe it is.

He manages to breathe out, “I don’t want you gone, I’m never going to want you gone.”

“I don’t want to go, either.”

Simmons sniffs, his own hands coming to grasp Grif’s shoulders lightly. “Are you sure?”

Grif exhales. “I’m sure. Are you sure you don’t want me gone?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Grif swallows thickly. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stay like that for a while, until Simmons realizes Grif is basically kneeling on his bed and that can’t be comfortable. Up-close —and this is the closest he’s ever had Grif— the bags under his eyes look even more pronounced. “You look very tired,” Simmons says. “You should lie down for a while.”

Grif doesn’t budge. “Yeah.”

Simmons bites his lip. “Do you wanna sleep here?”

Grif breathes shakily, but deeply. Then he nods. “Yeah.”

Simmons scoots over, trying not to upset his wound further. Grif lays his head on the pillow, next to his. Simmons raises a hand and softly presses his fingers to Grif’s stubbled cheek, then they stroke down to his chin. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” Grif gets on his side, facing him. “You’re stuck with me, asshole.”

“Yeah well, you’re stuck with me. Asshole.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

Grif is smiling. “Good.”

Simmons moves his head as close as he can to his, noses brushing. “Yeah, good.”

Grif closes his eyes. Simmons does too, and they fall asleep, warm breaths mingling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the end! I would like to give a big thank you to everyone who's read, liked or commented. This was my first fic that wasn't an one-shot and it was great to see people 'tuning in' whenever there was an update. You're fantastic!


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